


Manifold

by orphan_account



Series: No Bridge to Burn [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Slit’s handsy when he’s had a few. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Current example: arm slung around Nux’s shoulders, fingers tapping a beat against his sternum. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Further: yanking at the collar of Nux’s work shirt as if it’s chaffing at Slit’s throat when he’s the one not wearing it.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s a graduated form of roughhousing, is what it is.</i>
</p><p>A snapshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifold

**Author's Note:**

> A heads up for instances of casual racism.

Slit’s handsy when he’s had a few. 

Current example: arm slung around Nux’s shoulders, fingers tapping a beat against his sternum. 

Further: yanking at the collar of Nux’s work shirt as if it’s chaffing at Slit’s throat when he’s the one not wearing it.

It’s a graduated form of roughhousing, is what it is, for all the inelegant shakes that Nux is subjected to when Slit finds something funny, or the broad and rough hand that skirts over Nux’s recently shaved head. He does it in the same way Nux has seen Slit pat the blue heeler that visits from the warehouse over; a scruffy looking scrap of a pup, who tolerates it when Slit comes down on his hunches and squashes her face between his broad hands to rough up her ears. 

So it starts off like that: Friday nights, Henry’s Bar — a block and a half away from the industrial estate where the workshop is. A dingy place that’s poorly lit and tacky underfoot; the entire history of beer accumulated on the floor despite the mop and bucket set beside the jukebox. 

Maybe Henry put it there to reassure the patrons. 

Maybe it’s there to remind Henry to use it at the end of each night. 

Nux has never seen it move an inch.

There’s a licensed brothel up the road and round the corner that Slit’s joked about going to. One of the two within the industrial estate. Nux sorta remembers snorting over a beer when Slit had suggested going, before Rictus slapped a large meaty hand on the table, stood and said, “Fuck yeah. I forgot about that place.”

Slit had laughed and scooted into the blank space Rictus left behind, knee knocking into the bulk of Nux’s thigh. 

“Two for one specials on Fridays and Saturdays,” Slit had said, like it's some take-out place, and Nux said, “Piss off.”

Nux doesn’t drink much because he’s got too many childhood memories of being sick and throwing up. He’s mostly grown out of his allergies and illnesses, but, fact is, bile is shit when it goes through the sinuses, stinging and burning and being all he can smell for hours. 

Slit’s got no such compunction, and, coupled with the tolerance he’s built during their apprenticeship, the Friday night spew sessions had gradually become the Friday-night-and-apparently-Slit-is-handsy-hour. 

Rictus has already left for the brothel and Morsov, like all good Russians – half Russians. Whatever percentage he is –, is swimming his way through a bottle of cheap vodka. Henry’s never stocked the stuff until Morsov and still sometimes accuses him of being unAustralian. 

It could be worse, Slit had said once, it could have been tequila, to which Henry had scrawled out on a ripped portion of a XXXX box: NO PAKIS ALOUD. 

Nux had stared at it, and Slit must have been staring at him because he said to Henry: “You’re fucking with Nux’s sensibilities,” and then, to Nux: “It’s a fucking joke,” with his lips loose around the glass neck of his beer. 

His breath had steamed up the bottle before Slit had finished the last of it off; the length of his throat bared for a second, rolling.

Henry threatens them with the mop when he’s had enough and wants to go home. It’s 11 PM this time, and Nux staggers to the toilets first, cramped in a small ratty-ass room that contains a trough and one cubicle, along with the world’s tiniest sink that’s enough to dip the tip of his fingers in. 

The room fucking stinks. It’s a punch in the face with how bad it is.

“Jesus Christ,” Nux says as he jerks at the zip of his pants. It always sticks in the middle, where the teeth fold over themselves. He’s too goddamn lank for the size. 

“Henry,” Nux shouts. His voice bounces off the narrow, paint-flakey walls. “Clean this goddamn dump up already.”

“You offerin?” Henry calls back, “’cos the mop’s here waiting for ya.”

“No fuckin way, man,” Nux hears Slit slur. “He’s my ride.”

“Yeah, I’ll fuckin bet,” someone else says and Slit laughs again while Nux swears, entirely audible.

Nux dips his fingers into the sink – dainty, it’s that fucking small – the water frigid from the pipes. 

Slit has his head on the bar top when he comes out. Nux makes a face because the bar isn’t any better than the floor, and Slit smiles at him, shadows collecting at his cheeks where the lines are the deepest. It makes him look deranged, paired with Slit’s huge goddamn brow, he looks like some kind of Neanderthal. Nux tells him so as he grabs his keys and then says, “C’mon, we’re going.”

Slit gathers himself up from the bar, wipes the back of his hand against his cheek and slips off the stool. Nux watches him stagger as they make their way outside with Henry calling g’night at their backs.

“You need to live closer,” Slit says as he heaves himself into the seat that groans beneath his weight. He has to slam the door twice after him because it doesn’t latch the first time.

Nux starts the car, delights in the low, meaty growl of the engine before it turns over. 

There’s silence before Slit continues, “’S too fuckin far.”

Nux is faintly aware of the orange glow of the lights they pass under, alternately illuminating and plunging them into darkness. 

Besides him, Slit slumps against the window with a dull thud and mumbles, “You’re a shit driver,” like he’s obliged to say it, and Nux tells him, “It’s why I have all 12 points in my license and you don’t.” 

Because it wasn’t as if it was Nux laying 11s and doing 80 in a 60 zone within distance of a police station.

There’s a shuffle of sound and Nux doesn’t have to look to know that Slit is giving him the finger. 

But Slit has a point – about the distance – because it takes 45 minutes of driving to get back despite the emptiness of the highway. 

It’s worse during peak hour, and Nux had grown frustrated enough with the stop-start of traffic and a heavy clutch to head to work an hour early and leave half an hour late. 

(“Mate,” Slit had said about the clutch, boot rested on the front bar of the car he’d been working on. He gestured, wrench in hand. “You’re gonna be shittin sideways with the weight of this thing.” 

He hadn’t been wrong.)

Slit catches the train in the morning and hitches a ride only at the end of the day, which works out fine because Nux is on the receiving end of Slit’s complaints enough as it is.

Slit’s asleep against the window when Nux pulls into his park, a loose curl in his seat. Nux kills the engine and reaches across the console to shake him awake.

“Fuc’off,” Slit slurs, throws a punch at him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Yeah,” Nux says, “you wanna sleep here?”

“I wanna sleep here,” Slit says as he struggles with his seatbelt and then the door handle, grabbing at it until it unlatches and he tumbles out of the car. 

Slit staggers and swears, voice echoing against the concrete walls and it makes Nux feel a little smug. He’s only had the two beers, and there is that faint spaced-out feeling of tiredness, but he’s coherent, unlike Slit.

Slit does his handsy thing again, suddenly okay with being handled as he comes up and slings an arm around Nux’s shoulders. Because he’s an asshole, Slit makes Nux bear most of his weight though he doesn’t really need to; forces Nux to wind an arm around the lean length of Slit’s waist to steady them while they negotiate the stairs. 

There’s a brief second where Nux considers letting go. It'd be funny to see Slit go down like a dead weight, but then he’s too nice sometimes, Nux is, and the thought goes as far as being briefly entertained.

“Fuck this,” Slit says as they trip up the narrow stairs. Nux hisses a breath between his teeth at their discord while Slit grunts out a: “Fuck— fuck you,” which… could be directed to the stairs again, or maybe Nux. It’s difficult to tell.

Nux drags the fingers of his free hand through the fuzz on Slit’s head where it comes in thick, dark and long enough to hint at curls. He’s due for a shave. Nux digs the blunt of his nails in to make him shut up and Slit swears once, but then does. 

He dumps Slit next to the door once they reach it and Slit goes down like Nux predicted. His knees don’t even pretend to bear his bulk; they just fold and Slit slides down, down against the hallway wall until he’s a heap on the ratty carpeted floor, legs akimbo. 

Nux snorts, unlocks the door and shoves it open. He nudges Slit’s body with a boot, digs the toe under the bulk of him like he would his old family dog when he was encouraging her out for a walk, and it works on Slit where it hadn’t on Luce.

“In,” Nux says. Slit drags himself inside.

Nux moves to follow, only to throw a look to the door opposite. They’ve—they’ve made a lot of noise and the hallway echoes, and he knows for a fact that the walls are thin and poorly insulated. The old widow a couple of doors down had complained about them before and he—… he would apologise if they’ve made enough ruckus to disturb anybody. 

But they haven’t disturbed anybody that night, apparently, and Nux shuts the door, louder than necessary. Because he can.

Slit’s on the couch, arms tucked into his armpits and knees folded up, chin to his chest. Nux tells him to get his boots off the furniture and Slit grunts before complying, dropping his feet with a heavy thud — one, two.

Nux gives him a couple of minutes, grabs a drink while he does and eats a stale slice of bread for the lack of anything else. Then he nudges Slit again and says, “Okay, out.”

And Slit, fucking Slit, shoves himself deeper into the pillows, eyes still shut and arms folded tight against his chest, says, “Piss off. I’m sleeping.” And then for good measure: “Asshole.”

Nux has to stare for a second, because every iteration of a Friday night has Slit peeling himself off the couch and leaving. If he’s off his face, he gets a cab. If he’s not, he steals Nux’s push bike. Most times he just legs it. It’s less than an hour to walk and it isn’t as if Slit is gone to the wind either. 

Nux stares at Slit’s face: the determined slant of his wide mouth and the deep furrow of his brow. He’s not moving.

It’s a little awkward. There isn’t a protocol for this and Nux thinks of all the times his uncle - stinking of rum and coke - had crashed out on his parent’s couch as a kid, and his mother draping a sheet over him. 

Nux slides a hand over his face. He hasn’t drunk a lot, but there’s a headache building behind his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Nux says, because he really doesn’t fucking feel like dragging Slit’s ass out of his apartment. “Get your own ride next time.”

Slit’s expression shifts to something smug, but changes again when Cat slinks out of Nux’s room, a shadow with yellow eyes, and bounds onto the couch to settle on Slit’s stomach. Slit cracks open an eye as Cat kneads, tips of her claws catching on the drill of Slit’s dungarees. 

“Well,” Nux says, suddenly cheered and buoyant. He raps at Slit’s head, whips his body out of the way when Slit strikes an arm out and says, “Have a good one.”


End file.
